


Everything But Love

by Djinn



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8282399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djinn/pseuds/Djinn
Summary: Despite the title, don't assume this has an unhappy ending.  I'm going for a bit more a realistic look at what Spock and Chapel might end up as if the Pon Farr is what brings them together with no other emotion spurring it on.  It's dark and angsty and these are very flawed characters--especially Spock--but that doesn't mean they can't grow.  But will it be apart or together?





	1. The Attraction of Falling Bodies

Her skin is pale in the gathering moonlight—pale except where bruises mottle that pallor from wherever he has gripped her too hard. Some are not from his fingers; some are teeth marks, where he nipped her in his passion. Passion that is finally beginning to wane, but is far from gone.

He has turned all the lamps off. But the light still streams in from the window, illuminating her body as she lies naked on the rented bed. He should cover her up. But he hopes that if she gets cold, she will move and stir and finally wake, if only to get warm again.

She has not moved. And she has started to shiver. What if she will not wake?

He is worried. 

He gets up to cover her. His hand lingers on her shoulder. He feels a rush of desire and strokes her body, hard fingers brushing over her breasts, her belly, moving lower. He shrugs off his robe and stares down at her. Shame fills him. But he is pragmatic. If he does not give in now, he will be taken again by the madness. And then he will hurt her more. Only if he slakes the constant thirst with small sips can he keep her safe.

It disturbs him that he will use her while she is unconscious. That he cannot control himself. But that lack of control is why she is here. Helping him. But hurting—hurting enough to have retreated into this sleep that will not end.

She is human. His mother was human. Humans can withstand the Pon Farr. Why has she withdrawn in this way? Why does she not wake? She was not afraid, came to him willingly. He turned her initial offer down, sent her away.

She came back. Over and over and over until the last time when the madness had begun and he reached for her and pulled her to him. She seemed relieved. She did not want him to die.

Now he wonders if she is dying. He could call for help, ring the front desk of this very discreet resort and request aid. But the Pon Farr is not over, and he needs her. She is his for the duration, and if they take her away, he will revert to the primitive Vulcan—the kind capable of tracking his mate forever if needed. Tracking her and taking her back, no matter the risk. He cannot chance it. For his sake, or for hers.

##

She isn't asleep. Not in the traditional sense. She can feel Spock as he moves onto the bed, can feel him reaching for her. Her body protests, and she tells it to quiet. Her mind retreats further as he enters her.

He doesn't mean to hurt her. She knows that just as she's aware that she put herself in this place, opened up this potential, when she offered herself to him. 

She didn't know what would come. But she doesn't blame him for how tired she is or how she would like to let go of the slim, bright tether that keeps her tied to her life. She would like to die, but if she does, he will too, and she can't bear that. Not when she gave everything to save him. 

If she just hangs on for a little while longer so that he will live, that will be sufficient. Even if she dies, he will live.

She did not plan to give everything. The Pon Farr was just sex. Frequent, passionate sex. She didn't think she'd die from sex.

But the Pon Farr is not sex. The Pon Farr is deeper—supposed to be hot but so burning cold that she's freezing to death in this fire of lust. 

She was tired when she came to him—tired from med school, tired from trying to learn how to be CMO in as short a time as possible, tired of building a crew with a man who was demoted and then stolen away, tired of so damn much. She'd been running on fumes for weeks now and then she came to Spock, because she had to—and maybe she didn't care what happened to her at this point? 

Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he's chosen not to meld with her, and she feels the distance between them as his body batters hers and his mind hovers atmospheres away from where hers lies reeling.

She would call out for him, but he didn't ask for her help. He didn't want her, turned her down repeatedly. She came back and each day saw less control and more desire, until finally, he took her. She won. She wore him down.

Or so she told herself.

He took her to his bed, locking the door, pushing her down and covering her, taking his own pleasure in her body. And yet, for all the times he's taken her, he's never really touched her.

And now she hovers at the edge of her own consciousness, looking down on the scene. She sees his back, sees the moonlight gleam on his still black hair as he pumps into her. She could let go, she could drift up and up and up and never come back.

She could die.

Mayb soon, she'll choose that. But only when she's sure he'll survive.

##

Her heart rate is slowing. Her body is shaking, and he draws the covers over them both, pulling her closer to try to warm her against his hotter skin. She is as close to him as she can be, and yet he feels a distance between them. A distance that grows with each passing minute.

He is disturbed, but he is not certain if his dismay is from the fact that she may be dying, or that he is not sure he cares. He should care. She has given him everything she has. She has kept him alive.

He lays her back and adjusts the pillow under her head. Her breathing is shallow and uneven. 

She is beautiful. He has never thought that before. But the moon is lighting her hair, and the brown has turned to a dark silver in the light. He traces the line of a bruise on her face. He has not melded with her so he is not sure how it came to be there. But it is in the familiar pattern, the mottled purple and rose markings of his fingers as they would be if he were to settle them on the psi points.

Like this. 

He remembers now. In the throes of his lust, he wanted to meld with her but then resisted the urge. The struggle is marked out on her face. He touches the bruises softly, leans down and runs his lips over her cheek. The skin does not feel different. He licks her and decides her bruises do not taste different. 

As his lips touch down again, her body moves slightly under his.

Why did he not meld with her? It is customary.

"Christine." His voice is a harsh whisper in the silent room. He has not spoken to her since he ripped her clothes from her. He has not acknowledged that she is anyone, anything, other than the body he has used to survive.

Why would he treat her this way?

"Christine."

Her eyelids flicker, the barest of movements. He lifts his fingers, touching her eyebrows, following their curves as they point down to strong cheekbones, to the ever-accusing bruises.

He lays his fingers on the map he has left. Closes his eyes. And melds with her.

"Christine?"

##

She's almost free now, pressing against the flimsy cord that ties her. One thrust, two, three, and she'll be released. She jerks and moves against her mortal tether. Her spirit's motions are twins to the way Spock has moved upon her body. Thrusting into her, his hands jerking her to him, his lips hard against her own.

"Christine?"

She stops her struggles. There's been no noise in this blessedly peaceful place. Who would call her now?

She senses that she's falling. Dropping hard and heavy and straight for the body she wishes to escape.

"Christine?"

Spock's voice? Why would he be in her place—her safe place? He should go away. 

Even if she wants him to stay with all her heart. Even if in her still-so-silly dreams he finds her and saves her and brings her back to life.

Makes her care again.

Nothing can make her care again. She's tired. Her body aches. She sees the light and the warmth and it's just out of reach.

One thrust. One, two, maybe three, and she can reach it.

"Christine?"

She falls, down and down and down. Crashes into him. Past him. Into her body. 

Into her pain.

##

He opens his eyes. She is awake. She is staring at him with accusing eyes that fill with tears. She closes her lids tightly and does not let a single tear fall. 

"Let me go," she says, so softly that he would not hear her if he were only human.

She would not be lying here, wishing to die, if he were only human.

Would he love her if he were only human?

Would she love him?

"Let me go," she says again. But there is no hope in her voice, or in the eyes she now opens. 

They both know it is too late. He has called her back. He has saved her.

"Do you love me?" It is a question he has not wanted to ask. 

She does not answer and turns away from him. But she shudders, and he pulls her to him. Her skin is cold. So cold. He rubs her arms, wraps his legs around her. Her back begins to warm where it rests against his chest. 

His body begins to respond to her nearness. He wants her. 

She moans. "It's not over?"

"No," he whispers. He pulls her closer still, lets his lips rest against her neck. "I am sorry."

"Let me go."

"You wish to die?"

She nods. But her hands come up to cover his own where they lie on her breasts. She moans as he kisses her neck.

"It is too late. You are here and I am with you now. But...why do you wish to die?" He begins to suck on her neck; there are already bruises on her throat, lip marks, savage little things left behind where he has sucked and kissed and bit.

She flinches. He is sucking on an old mark. He feels her pain through what is left of the meld. It hurts. It also feels good. So he sucks harder.

He is surprised at the thought that is running through his mind. Over and over it sounds. 

She is mine. She is mine. She is mine.

Her hands tighten on his. Not to move him away, but in reaction. 

She knows. She hears. The meld is still open both ways.

"You are mine," he says. His voice is not tender. His hands are rough on her.

She turns, which is not easy because he is holding her, but she surprises him with her strength. She stares at him and her eyes are a faded gray in the moonlight. He leans in and kisses under the dark, angry circle under her eyes, circles that have grown bigger with every hour they've spent together.

She moans.

"Do you still want to die?"

"Yes," she says, but she is pulling him closer, moving her face so he can kiss the other side. He opens his mouth and lets his tongue glide down her cheek, to her lips. He licks them lightly, so lightly she shivers. 

"Open your mouth," he tells her through the meld—the meld that seems to be stronger, pulsing now with lust and desire. Not just his. Hers too.

He is no longer having sex.

_They_ are having sex.

She parts her lips and lets him in for a moment. Then her tongue bars the way, and he batters at it with his own. She tastes salty and warm, and he pushes her back into the pillow, moving over her, so he can press down. 

They kiss for a very long time. Her hands circle his waist, touching him tentatively, then with more assurance. She brushes his back lightly with her fingers, and it is his turn to shiver. She does it again and again, his ticklish pleasure relayed back through the meld. 

She touches his lips with her tongue, the same light touch as her fingers, which still move over his back.

He groans. Loudly. He wants her. He wants her, Christine, not just the silent, pained body that has serviced him. 

He does not know her. Has never known her. Christine is a mystery to him.

But she is what he wants.

He can tell by her smile, by the energy he feels coming back to her, that she understands this.

She opens herself to him, legs parting and coming up around him, nearly pulling him into her. Her mind is unguarded. She is holding nothing back and he moves into her, body and spirit. 

She arches as their bodies join, as his mind rushes through hers. 

He tastes her memories; he feels her essence. He thrusts hard and fast, his hands running over her, his lips on hers. 

Her hands are in his hair, rubbing hard, painfully. It arouses him even more.

She comes. It is the first time she has enjoyed his touches during these long nights, and the feel of her body spasming under his is more intense than anything he has felt up to this point. Her pleasure is contagious, her mind a spinning, intoxicating place as she soars far away.

But not to die. She floats back down to him, landing softly. His body pumps still, and she breathes hard as he finds his own pleasure, as he sends what he feels back to her.

She laughs. He hears it both in his mind and in the room. She laughs, and it is a beautiful sound.

He kisses the marks on her cheek. His map. Her salvation.

He does not love her, he tells her. But he wants her.

He can sense a deep disappointment, but somehow what he has offered is enough. He wonders if that will always be true.

She sleeps. A true sleep, her body and mind held close to his, no longer flying high, no longer battering against the boundaries between life and death.

He closes his eyes and sleeps, too.

##

She watches him. He holds her down, even in sleep. His grip on her excites her. She wonders if he'll release her as soon as he wakes. 

Or will he want her even then?

She can still feel the place far from their bodies where her life hovered in the balance. Still feel the warm, slight sense of a tether that nearly broke. 

She doesn't want to go back to that place.

She wonders if she'll feel the same once he opens his eyes.

The meld between them has died, going out sometime when they both slept. His mind has pulled away from her, but his body still touches her, leg wrapped around hers to pull her close, hand tight on her waist. Their lower bodies touch and in the morning stillness she can feel his hardness against her. He is aroused. 

Will he want her when he wakes up? Or only her body?

He stirs; his hand closes painfully on her, and she gasps.

His eyes open. His fingers release her, but he does not move his leg. 

His expression is different. The Pon Farr is gone. 

He pushes her hair back and is staring at her intently, but she can't decide if it's with any more interest than he might show a delicate experiment. 

"Are you in pain?" His voice is gravelly. They haven't spoken much. 

"A little."

"Should I call a doctor?"

She shakes her head.

He pushes against hers, his arousal more evident. She doesn't move until she sees frustration on his face, then she pushes back with her body.

He closes his eyes; a moan escapes his lips.

"You said I was yours." She touches his chest, moving her fingers over his skin. Will he make her stop? 

She pushes against him again, and he jerks her closer, is inside her with astounding ease. He stares at her and his eyes are calm.

"You said I was yours," she says again as she begins to move against him.

He does not try to control their pace, just lets her move. "Yes. I did say that."

He begins to touch her, hands everywhere. Moving over the places that bring her pleasure. She cries out. Once. Then again.

He moves into her then. She lies with her eyes closed, her breathing ragged as she comes down from where he's sent her. She feels his lips on hers, so gentle. Then not so gentle. He's kissing her. 

The Pon Farr is over, and he's kissing her.

He's moving frantically now, harder and faster, and she leans in and whispers, "Is it still true? That I am yours?"

She knows this isn't the time to ask. She knows he might say anything as he moves hard against her.

But he doesn't give her an easy answer. He asks, even as his thrusts increase tempo, "Do you want it to be?"

His fingers are on her again and as he cries out, she follows him into this painful, wonderful bliss. His lips are on her face, and she runs her hands over his back.

"Yes, I want it to be" she whispers, when they finally lie quietly, their breathing back to normal.

He doesn't say anything, just kisses her cheek. His hand is making lazy patterns on her waist, just above where his leg still rests on her hip. They're still joined. 

The ship will be back soon. The ship will be back with the lives that wait for them. 

The lives that have been lived separately.

He kisses her lips, not savagely but not gently, either. Somewhere in between. "Then it will be true." 

She nods. She is exhausted, cannot stop herself from yawning. 

"Go to sleep," he says.

But she is reluctant to see this end. 

He kisses her again. "Go to sleep, Christine. I will be here when you wake up." His mouth tilts up so slightly she thinks she's imagined it. 

But she smiles back anyway, then she lets her eyes close. She has never been held this close to a lover, never fallen asleep still joined.

He presses against her, body half ready for her. She smiles. He will take her again when she wakes up. She wonders how long he will let her sleep.

She hopes not long. 

His hands roam along her body. The touch soothing, making her relax. 

His lips on hers are the last thing she knows until she wakes up a few hours later. He makes love to her until the ship comes for them.

And later, that first night back on the Enterprise, in his quarters, he makes love to her again. 

As she falls asleep, she hears him whisper her name. It's as sweet as if he'd said that he loved her. It is entirely possible, that for him, saying her name is saying he loves her.

She finds the words mean little. Only the feeling of falling. Down and down and down.

Into love—she hopes.


	2. Drowning in Shadows

She lies against the crook of Spock's arm, staring at the ceiling of his quarters as he watches her. She is intimately familiar with this room and this bed, has come to understand the needs of the man who lies on top of the covers holding her in his arms. Since the Pon Farr brought their bodies crashing together, she has learned the small marks on his skin by memory—moles and freckles and greenish-dark raised scars from some childhood mishap or other. He hasn't told her how he came to have so many scars, and she hasn't asked. They don't talk much. This room's for other things. 

She can tell by the way he kisses her what kind of sex he'll want. Gentle and tender or fierce and mindblowing—literally, he's become an expert on enhancing their pleasure with the meld. There are times when he says her name, and the whispered, "Christine" echoes in their minds through the silky channels of the meld. She thinks at those times that perhaps he loves her.

She doesn't know for sure that he doesn't.

And there isn't time in the nights that pass so quickly to ask. Or perhaps it's just that she lacks the courage. There are times she almost resolves to ask, only to have the alarm go off and start the day, signaling that it's time for him to go his way and for her to head to sickbay. They do not come together again until the clock has wound down on their hours on duty. 

Until the clock has more than wound down. She comes to him after dinner, after whatever recreation he or she wishes to take. The few times she's had dinner with him have been in the shelter of his quarters. In the prison of his quarters.

She has never sat with Spock in the mess at breakfast, never watched as he plays chess with Kirk. She's never walked through the darkened observation lounge with him, never shared a shore leave with him under a strange sun.

He's told her she's his. And she is. She's just not sure what she is. His lover? His slut? His convenience? 

And while it may be true that she's his, he has never been hers. 

She doesn't think he ever will be.

"You are upset," he says softly.

She shakes her head. But if she were to look away from the ceiling, she would cry.

He sighs. It is a sound she did not think he ever made. But she has heard him sigh. She seems to bring it out of him.

But then how would she know if he sighs normally or not? She does not know him normally, just in this extraordinarily intimate fashion. Intimacy without access. She can touch him, but she can't know him.

She turns on her side, away from him. He moves closer, his body warm against her. His hand moves down her side, his touch gentle. Even loving. He moves her hair away from her neck and touches his lips to her back, moving up to her neck.

She shivers. He can move her. He can move her more than any man she's ever known.

She wishes she could move him.

Or that they could just move from this room. Even out into the corridor. She would accept just that. To stand in front of his door talking. Not to be held captive inside this hot, breathless room.

"Christine?" 

She closes her eyes. She's broadcasting her distress to him again. It's happening with more frequency. They can read each other without him actively holding the meld in place. It should make her happy.

It should thrill her.

It should be enough.

He sighs again. She pretends to sleep. He doesn't call her on the lie.

##

Spock watches Christine as she takes another reading of the vegetation. She does not have to do that; there are others in the landing party who are capable. She has moved away from the main group and glances over at him, her face a neutral mask. It occurs to him that she is learning that from him. Will she end up more Vulcan than he is?

She looks away. No one but he can feel how miserable she is. How angry she is. 

She was not supposed to have been on the landing party. Spock did not ask for her. McCoy was his first choice, but he was unwilling to leave a sick patient. He sent his deputy. He sent Christine.

Jim sighs. "Something's damned odd here." He looks over at Christine. "Better call her back. She's too exposed."

There is no danger here. Or so their tricorders tell them. But Jim has been anxious since they beamed down, and Spock has learned to trust his friend's instincts. 

He turns to Christine, almost calls her by that name before realizing his mistake. "Doctor. Please rejoin the group."

She shoots him a look that is not friendly. But she begins to move back to their position. She does not see the creature behind her, does not see it strike, moving at a deadly speed toward her like some bizarre hybrid of a snake and a tiger. Its striped body flashes once and she cries out. Its fangs are buried in her, wicked claws reaching out. Spock sees blood well down her sides, as the beast grabs hold. She screams in pain.

Jim's phaser blasts past Spock. Two other beams catch the beast as the security officers fire too. It screams, letting go of Christine and rushing toward them. It falls before it reaches them, dying as it hits the ground, convulsing in a dizzying pattern of yellow and black.

Beyond it, Christine is trying to rise, manages to push herself to her feet and sways dangerously. She looks at him, pain and fear so clearly written that he aches for her. He thinks she will reach out for him, and he is already moving toward her. But then she seems to force her eyes away from him, looking at the others.

Jim is the first to reach her. He catches her as she begins to convulse like the beast that savaged her. 

"Poison," she says. 

As Jim calls for emergency beam-out, she looks over at Spock. There is fear and pain and naked longing in her face. Then there is nothing as she passes out.

He wants to take her from Jim, but the transporter is ready, and his friend does not know that Spock should be the one to hold her, to help her.

He has never told his best friend that Christine is his. 

Why has he never told his best friend that?

Jim gives Christine over to the emergency medical team that runs into the transporter room. He looks back at Spock, his face set in an odd expression. It seems almost like...distaste. 

"I will make sure she is all right," Spock says, unwilling to be subjected any longer than is necessary to his friend's strangely hostile look.

Jim nods, turns and heads to the bridge. Spock watches him, then follows the med techs to sickbay. 

McCoy looks up at him as he comes in. Christine is convulsing again. Spock feels apprehension rise like bile in his gorge, making it difficult to swallow, to breathe.

She cannot die. She is his.

He...enjoys her.

He realizes she is awake, is looking at him. Her eyes lock with his as McCoy works on her. She does not look away from him, not when McCoy fills her with something from a hypo, not when the nurses put her in stasis restraints to control the convulsions. She looks at him until the life seems to fade from her face, and she falls into an exhausted sleep.

She looks at him but never says a word.

McCoy turns to look at him. "She's not contagious, Spock. You can come into the room."

Spock realizes with a shock that he is still standing in the entrance to sickbay, hands clutching the doorframe as the door bumps gently against his hip, trying to close. He moves slowly to her side and hears the door ease shut behind him. 

He watches her as she sleeps. "Will she be all right?"

"Yes." McCoy begins to work on the long gashes. "Nothing vital hit. But she's going to be sore. She'll need time to heal. She'll need to take it easy."

Spock does not answer, just watches her.

McCoy waits until the nurse leaves the room, then he turns and says in a low voice. "Just to make myself clear, she will need rest. No strenuous activity."

Spock forces himself not to react. Has Christine told McCoy? Would she do that?

McCoy is looking at him with the same expression that Spock saw earlier on Jim's face. He finally recognizes it for what it is. 

Disapproval. His friends disapprove.

He pushes past McCoy and touches Christine on the cheek, his finger resting lightly on the psi point. It is all that is necessary between them now, just the barest of touches and he is in her mind and he can feel her, strong and alive, but tired. Tired and hurt and afraid. The fear lingers even as she sleeps. He pulls his hand away and lets her rest.

McCoy's jaw is set, a tight line that is made more foreboding by the silence that accompanies it. McCoy always has something to say, some goad to apply, something caustic or flip to share. But now he is silent. Just stares angrily at Spock.

Spock feels an unaccustomed anger fill him. How dare this man judge him? "This is a private matter, Doctor," he finally says.

"Private? Our quarters share a wall, Spock. And it's a thin one." McCoy's smile is bitter and sharp. It would cut Spock to the bone if the doctor's words weren't already making him look away in sudden embarrassment.

Spock waits for McCoy to leave, but the doctor settles into the chair next to Christine's bed. He shows no sign of moving, his face set in a stubborn line.

Spock turns and leaves. He must get to the bridge. Work. Work will calm this fierce anger he feels. 

But when he gets there, Jim spends the shift glancing back at him. He finally gets up and walks back. "She's all right?"

Spock nods tightly.

"Your equanimity is astounding, Spock."

"Jim, I—"

"Truly astounding." Jim leans down, his breath warm on Spock's ear. Warm and dangerous. "Do you even care that she was hurt?" Then he straightens up, his expression unreadable. "I'll be in sickbay."

Spock sits at his station, fingers hovering over the panel. He is unsure what to do, how to occupy himself. He sets his fingers down on his legs, drumming a pattern that he suddenly realizes would be a perfect twin to Christine's heartbeat as it sounds when she sleeps in his arms.

Every night she sleeps in his arms. Every night.

She is his. Is that wrong? 

Is it wrong that they touch and share their bodies?

Is it wrong that he can bring her pleasure?

She is not quiet when he brings her pleasure...and the walls are thin. 

She broadcasts her pleasure loudly. But her misery has been silent. How is it that his friends seem to have heard it long before he did?

##

She wakes and is conscious of fire in her veins. Her sides hurt when she breathes, and she can't feel her limbs. 

She hears a murmur of voices, then soft hands fiddling with something near her arms and legs. There is a familiar whine, and she realizes she's been in stasis restraints. Her mind accepts that, remembers convulsions—dangerously strong ones. They did right.

She hears McCoy talking to her and opens her eyes. Everything is blurry and a nurse puts drops in her eyes and her vision clears. 

"Rest," McCoy says, shooting her with another hypo. Something to reduce the fire inside her, no doubt. 

"Thirsty," she says. 

An ice stick is held close and she sucks on it greedily, taking as much liquid as they will allow. She's always thirsty these days. When she's with Spock in his quarters, she's always thirsty. It's hot in that room, hot like the venom that's raging a fiery path through her body.

She doesn't need to look to know that Spock isn't with her. Not sitting by her bed in anxious vigil. 

But then she hears Spock's voice from the doorway—McCoy's face freezes, and he tighten his hand on her arm almost convulsively. She can feel her face redden. How does he know? She's told no one.

"I sensed she was awake," Spock says, as if daring McCoy to contradict him.

"Bully for you," McCoy says.

"Len," she says, her voice making a gravelly mess of his name. "Please."

McCoy just shakes his head, but he leaves them alone.

Spock moves to her bed. "You did not think I would be here."

"You weren't here. You just got here."

He frowns, but he doesn't correct her. He stands by the bed and touches her hand—a fleeting glance of a touch. As if he cannot resist the touch, but considers it ill conceived.

She wonders if that's what he thinks of them. Irresistible but ill conceived? 

She tries to turn away from him, but it hurts too much. So she closes her eyes. She can't see him. And he can't see how much she wants from him. 

And she won't have to watch how uncomfortable that will make him.

She has learned to shield, better than he probably even realizes. But she's hurt, and the pain is keeping her emotions near the surface. She wants him, and he'll never be hers. 

It doesn't matter that she's his. It never has mattered.

She was a fool to think that things would change.

She opens her eyes and blinks the dryness away. He's staring down at her, his face the same blank mask that so often troubles her. 

"I can't do this anymore." Her voice is barely more than a whisper, but she knows he can hear her. He always hears her. 

He frowns.

"Us. I mean. Us."

He blinks then. Her words are a surprise. 

Finally, he says, "You are mine."

She shrugs.

He looks away. "It will be difficult to stay away." He seems suddenly complacent. As if he knows she won't be able to keep her distance from him, so he doesn't have to take her words seriously.

He's right. She won't be able to stay away from him...not on this ship.

"The _Exeter's_ CMO was called away for a family emergency. Starfleet Medical asked if I'd fill in. I wasn't going to, but now..." She can't bring herself to look at him. "It's only a temporary assignment. But it will give us time. To get used to sleeping apart." 

Being apart at any other time will require no such adjustment.

He stares at her. He didn't expect her to leave? There's a sudden look in his eyes that she cannot bear. As if he's a small boy being abandoned. Will he ask her not to go? Will he try to convince her to stay?

"How long will you be gone?" he asks.

"A few weeks. Maybe a month."

"But you are hurt."

She feels her face twist painfully, into an expression that she doubts could ever be called a smile. "Were you planning on taking care of me?"

He nods.

She laughs and it's a laugh made of pain and disappointment. "Go away, Spock. I can take care of myself."

McCoy comes out of his office, stares at them. "Don't tire her out, Spock."

Spock's face tightens into an unreadable mask again, then he turns and leaves.

She closes her eyes. She's done it. She's broken free.

Why does she feel even more miserable than before? And why can she feel Spock's pain too? She just wishes she knew what exactly has hurt him.

She is fairly certain it isn't her.

##

Spock studies the chessboard. Jim sits across from him, smiling. He is winning. Again. 

Spock finds it difficult to focus on the board. Christine has been gone for two weeks. She has not contacted him. She is light years away.

Yet he can feel her. He is aware of her. She is sad. She is lonely. 

And she is not alone.

His hand hovers over the queen. Finally he moves her, a safe move, his usual style—to protect the king. He will sacrifice the queen if he has to...to protect his king.

He wonders if Christine plays chess. He has never asked her. She has never said one way or the other.

There are so many things he does not know about her.

Spock wonders if the man she is with knows more. 

"You seem distracted," Jim says quietly as he moves his knight.

His friend no longer glares at him, no longer rebukes him for his lack of concern. Jim has let go of his role of Christine's defender. But Spock imagines that he is glad she is off the ship. For everyone's sake.

"Do you miss her?" Jim asks.

The question is unexpected. Spock looks up, meets Jim's eyes. Bright, quick eyes that see everything. Why did he think he could keep the truth from him?

He does not answer and pretends to study the board. Finally, he looks up, sees that Jim's eyes are still on him. Spock nods.

Jim sighs. "It may not be the best thing. You and she..."

Spock nods. His friend is wise. It is not the best thing. But that does not keep Spock from wanting her back in his bed. From lying awake at the end of his shift, staring at the ceiling that used to so fascinate her.

He knows she is having sex with another man. He does not know how he knows, but the knowledge is katra deep. She is his and she is with someone else. It is elemental.

"Do you love her?" Jim asks. At Spock's look, he shakes his head. "Forget I asked that."

He would like to forget. Does he love Christine? He is not sure. He is not sure if what calls to him is anything close to love. 

He only knows that he wants her. That he wants her back.

He studies the board. The queen is in danger. He moves her back, to where she was, next to the king.

She is no safer there.

Jim frowns. "Not a very smart move."

A rush of stubbornness comes over him and he lifts his fingers. The play is done; he has moved her stupidly. Jim has called it.

He has put her back where she started.

"What does love feel like?" It takes him a moment to realize what he has asked.

Jim is staring at him. "Spock?"

"The question is not difficult to comprehend. What is your answer?"

Jim shrugs. "Love feels...good. It makes you feel more secure, happy and light." He smiles. "It's hard to explain."

Spock shakes his head. What he feels for Christine does none of those things. But then he is a Vulcan. Why should love—if that is what he feels for Christine—make him feel any of that? Why should any strong emotion make him anything but wary? 

"If you don't love her," Jim says quietly, "you should let her go." He glances up at Spock. "She's a good woman."

Spock nods. He knows all this. She was willing to sacrifice herself so that he might live. He is aware that she is good, that she deserves better. 

That does not mean he wants to let her go.

He thinks about the sense he has that she is moving on. Maybe she will elect to stay on the _Exeter_ with her new lover and never come back to the _Enterprise_. Perhaps he will have no choice but to give her up...to let her go.

Perhaps that will be best.

##

Christine can feel the difference in the air as soon as she beams back to the _Enterprise_. Her past is written in the bulkheads, the corridors, sickbay, her old quarters, her new ones. 

And Spock's.

They asked her to stay on the _Exeter_. She almost did.

Why didn't she? She wants to turn around and climb back on the pad. Tell the tech to send her back to the nice safe ship that is probably already speeding away.

She's back. By her own choice, she's back.

And there's only one reason. She picks up her bag and walks to the door.

It opens before she can get there. Spock stares at her from the corridor.

"I'm back."

"I know."

They stare at each other like ancient enemies. Eyes wary. He takes her bag and walks her to her quarters. She is surprised at the gesture.

She thanks him at her door, but he gently pushes her inside. Taking the bag from him, she busies herself with putting her things away. He watches her from near the door but doesn't try to touch her and says nothing.

"You're making me nervous." She turns to look at him. 

He's staring at her. His eyes intense. She knows that look. 

He wants her.

And every cell in her body wants him back.

She turns away. She's about to ask him to leave when he says, "You were with another man."

It is not a question; he's not asking her to say he's wrong or right. He knows.

She nods and doesn't look at him.

She can hear him moving toward her. His hands on her arms are rough. He pulls her to him, her back coming up hard against his chest, then he begins to touch her.

She moans.

"Was he good?"

She nods. He was good, her young officer. Good and nothing at all that she wanted.

"Yet you came back."

She knows they can both hear the unsaid "to me."

"Yes."

He stops moving; his hands are warm where they rest on her arm, on her waist.

She doesn't move and closes her eyes against the tears that are threatening. She doesn't want to love him. She wishes she could have loved that other man. Wishes he could have touched her in some way that mattered.

"You are mine."

She sighs. The words are truth. She turns in his arms and stares up at him. 

He touches her face, his fingers settling over the meld points. She lets him in and doesn't hide anything from him.

His hand tightens on her as he finds the memories, relives with her the way the man touched her, what she felt. What she didn't feel.

She realizes he's trembling. His eyes are open and he's watching her, a strange look on his face.

"Do you still love me?" he asks.

She might lie, but he's inside her mind. He can see the truth for himself. He just wants to hear her say it.

She doesn't give him that; he has to settle for a nod. It seems to be sufficient, for his mouth turns up slightly. 

She sighs, and his smile fades.

Reaching up, she touches his face gently. "This relationship...it is what it is." She smiles at him, a sad smile she thinks. 

He pulls her closer. His lips are extraordinarily gentle on hers. Tender, even, and so sweet. 

Loving.

"It is what it is," he says, as he brushes her hair back from her face. "But it is not what it was."

She shakes her head slightly. She doesn't understand. 

"I have missed you." His fingers tighten on her face.

She gasps in pain. He is going deep, too deep. 

Then he stops. And opens to her. For the first time, he's exposed, and she tastes his pain when he felt her with her new lover. He shows her that he was lonely without her.

That he had ample time to reflect on how things were between them. To regret how things were between them.

To want to fix the things that were between them.

"I love you," he whispers, mind to mind.

She forgets how to breathe until he says it again. And again.

She sees that he was frightened for her when she was injured. That he did care. 

She was never sure.

"Of course I was affected. You might have been killed." He's pushing her down on the bed, and she realizes that he's removed her clothes and his own.

He leaves them at this strange, deep level of meld as he moves into her. It is more intense than she remembers—so good, so unbelievably good. No man can touch her now. Not without leaving her hungrier for Spock.

She feels his satisfaction at her thought. He moves hard and fast, and she holds him and cries out as he pushes the meld deeper and deeper. She begins to lose consciousness and he pulls back a bit, just enough to keep her safe. 

"I love you," he says again, this time in words. 

She murmurs the words back, can barely think for the sensations that are bombarding her. The sensations...and the emotion. His emotion. Love. He loves her. He missed her.

She begins to cry. Weeks of trying to forget him seem to disappear, and there is nothing but Spock and her and their bodies touching and moving and merging.

He kisses her tears away, rolls and lets her ride him. He watches her as she moves, finally taking his hand off her face. The meld pulses between them like a living thing. She can feel it beating; it has its own heart, its own soul. It is more than them.

He pulls her down to kiss him. Their lips and tongues move desperately, his hands are frantic, as if he must touch her everywhere or die. 

He rolls her and covers her with his body. "I love you," he says as he pounds her. 

She cries out, unsure if she's used her voice or her mind. She hears his harsh cry echo in her mind as he comes, pulling her closer, his body pushing at her like he'll disappear inside her if she lets him.

He kisses her, stares at her as if he's seeing her for the first time, as if he's memorizing her face. 

She's uncomfortable, afraid that she will do something that will end this closeness, so she looks away.

He gently pulls her back so she is looking at him. He smiles, and the miniscule upturn of his lips is such a strange thing. She reaches out and touches the sides of his mouth, the tiny curve of his smile. 

"I wanted to forget you," she says.

"I know."

She doesn't realize she's crying until he brushes her tears away.

"I am sorry that I hurt you." His voice is so tender it makes her cry harder.

She buries her head against him, doesn't want to think about how he will hurt her again. And again.

It is wonderful now. But morning will come. And nothing will change.

She tries to pull away from him, but he holds her.

"Let me go, Spock."

He smiles again, and she believes that she could fall in love with just that tiny lift of his lips. 

He kisses her, his mouth lazy on hers, not pressing her so much as just touching, just connecting. Light—the kisses are light. And happy.

She laughs. Such whimsy. It's why she's so easy to hurt.

Yet as he kisses her she doesn't feel as if she's in danger. She feels safe. She feels good.

He pulls away from her enough to ask, "Would you like to have breakfast together in the morning?"

She stares at him. 

"Should I restate the question?"

She laughs. The sound is odd and hangs between them. She doesn't laugh very often with him.

She would like to laugh with him. And she would love to have breakfast with him.

She tells him so.

"We will have to wake up earlier, then; the mess is crowded in the morning," he says. Then he reaches over and calmly sets her alarm. 

She laughs again and he pulls her to him, kissing her fiercely. She is lost, lost in his touch and his kiss. In the meld, which he deepens after each act of pleasure. She's drowning and feels as if she will split apart and be consumed in the connection between them—the love. 

It doesn't sound like a bad way to go.

FIN


End file.
